


Bright Blessed Sky, Dark Sacred Night

by skoosiepants



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Off-screen Character Death, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15718848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: The first thing Stiles says to him, a sluggishly bleeding cut above his left eye, grime caked under his fingernails, a hand gripping a tattered backpack slung over his shoulder, is, "Do you have a car?"Not:hey, Jackson, what are you doing here?Not:did you just stab that fucking guy through the face?Not:was that fucking Danny?Jackson twists the metal rod out with a sick squelch and says, "No."or -The zombie apocalypse road trip au





	Bright Blessed Sky, Dark Sacred Night

**Author's Note:**

> So I tried to think of a scenario where Jackson and Stiles would have to rely on each other and then maybe have hot sex. And then this happened. This is heavy on the atmosphere and not so heavy on the zombies. As usual, I write nothing without the influence of Lissadiane.
> 
> Travel logistics are non-existent here, just shhhhhh relax and enjoy.
> 
> Title is from _What a Wonderful World_. I wrote this relatively quick, guys, so forgive any mistakes I missed.

The first thing Stiles says to him, a sluggishly bleeding cut above his left eye, grime caked under his fingernails, a hand gripping a tattered backpack slung over his shoulder, is, "Do you have a car?"

Not: _hey, Jackson, what are you doing here?_

Not: _did you just stab that fucking guy through the face?_

Not _: was that fucking Danny?_

Jackson twists the metal rod out with a sick squelch and says, "No."

*

"It wasn't Danny," Jackson says, when the freaky silence gets too much. Bending an arm through the half open window of a white Ford truck, he pops the lock and then swings the door open for Stiles to scramble inside.

"I didn't say anything." Stiles rips into the casing beneath the steering wheel, tugs out a jumble of wires.

"That was Carter," Jackson says. He leans up against the side of the truck, taps the tire iron over his knee, keeping watch. Carter, doofy sophomore, played piano in the common lounge. "Danny was three days ago."

"Jesus," Stiles says, but the engine turns over, a loud, angry echo through the campus. "Get in." There's a panicked, manic edge to his voice, but right now Jackson is comfortably numb.

He rolls his shoulders and skirts around the front of the truck—he doesn't hear anything except Stiles's thundering heart. Everyone else is dead or gone.

*

"Fuck," Stiles says. He slams his open palm on the peeling leather of the steering wheel. " _Fuck_."

"Eloquent as always, Stilinski." Jackson rests an elbow on the window frame, closes his eyes.

 _Now_ Stiles says, "What were you still fucking doing here?"

Jackson shrugs. Evac was four days ago. Five days ago, Jackson and Danny promised Scott, under duress and long-distance puppy-eyes, that they'd wait for Stiles.

Stiles scrapes past haphazardly parked cars, turfs lawns, and slams into a skid on a tight turn onto the main road leading out of town. There's a curly-haired girl sitting on the edge of the curb in front the of the student union, face in her hands. She jerks up when she hears their engine, Jackson almost tells Stiles to stop, to wait—she waves, frantic, and Stiles just steps on the gas instead.

Jackson watches his profile, the tight corners of his mouth, and doesn't say anything about it.

Stiles slants him a look anyhow. He says, "You wanna risk there actually being a _reason_ she was left behind?"

Jackson raises a palm in surrender. Danny had _cried_. Jackson has no more fucks to give, honestly.

He says, "Do you know where we're going?"

Stiles's mouth tightens even more. "Home."

*

The radio plays static.

The XM link plays an emergency broadcast recording. Jackson flicks it off after the fourth, _"…if you've been bitten, report to the CDC tents located…_ "

There are no more CDC tents. All emergency personal have been slaughtered. But what's worse than the screams, what jerks Jackson awake in the foggy, sweltering, pre-dawn hours, curled up in the cab of an aging Ford F150 with Stiles fucking Stilinski clutching his hand, is the near-silent shuffling moans that come after.

*

The second day, they split a Hershey bar and the second of three bottles of water Stiles has stashed in his bag.

The sun is barely up before the road stops—cars for miles, abandoned. They share a look, Stiles swipes his tongue over his lower lip, and Jackson nods.

They go _around_.

They putter slowly over the grass shoulder. Dense woods casing them in on each side. They reach the end of the line in silence. Jackson's window is down; there are birds chirping, and the buzz of summer cicadas.

Stiles stops, puts the car in reverse.

They go _back_.

Stiles forages for food and water, and Jackson looks for something, anything, to syphon fuel. He finds a gas can, half full, in the back of a gold sedan.

They fill the back of the truck with anything useful: blankets, clothes, a rifle with no ammunition. A bag of pretzels, two two-liters of coke, a jug and four flats of bottled water— _a goldmine_. Three paperback books, two granola bars, a family photo album with four gap-toothed dark-haired toddlers on the front. A stuffed gray striped cat that Stiles sits on the seat between them, hard eyes daring Jackson to say a word.

Jackson doesn't.

Jackson is _tired_.

It almost seems like Stiles is a little disappointed by that.

When they finally ease away again, the woods around them have gone quiet.

*

The third day, Stiles starts talking again. Jackson _almost_ misses the silence.

"They were going north," Stiles says. "Before the—" He pauses, swallows hard. "Before the CDC failed. They were already going north."

There's a battered pack of Marlboros in the glove compartment with six cigarettes left. Jackson idly wishes he smoked.

Jackson wants to say: _do you think they made it out alive?_

Jackson says, "I talked to Scott right before the evac."

Stiles nods. "Yeah. I, uh. Good."

Danny and Jackson had a friend, Noelle, and Noelle had a sister, Laney, and Jackson talked to them right before the evac, too. He doesn't tell Stiles what happened to them, though. _A lot_ , he thinks. There are no fucking guarantees.

The only thing Jackson knows for sure, right this minute, is that he's alive, and Stiles is alive, and he's going to try his fucking best to make it stay that way, even if no one is left waiting for them on the other side.

*

"So we're not really going home," Jackson says, taking a slow, careful drag of the cigarette. It tastes like ash mixed with dog shit and he coughs ungracefully into the rapidly falling evening, smoke billowing out of his nose. It burns, and Jackson puts it back up to his mouth, anyhow.

Stiles is quiet.

When Jackson looks over at him, curious, he's got his head tipped back, arms limp at his sides. His chest shudders when he breathes.

Stiles says, soft, "I don't think there's a home to go back to."

California got hit hard and fast.

Stiles says, waving one hand loosely, "Derek's home base is north now. Cold, snow, defensible mountain man cabin. Bears. You know, safe stuff."

"And you've been there before," Jackson says. They have a map. Kind of. They have a map of Montana and one of Florida, and, as far as Jackson can figure, they're still in Wyoming.

"I've seen pictures." Stiles's fingers tap on the wheel. "I know the way."

They killed the lights before they stopped for the night. Eased into twilight, barely moving. And now they're parked with all the doors locked. Jackson flicks the half finished cigarette out the window and rolls it up. They split a granola bar and a bottle of water and watch the sun go all the way down—brilliant oranges fading into bruises, the stars so fucking bright over the distant mountains.

Stiles slumps over when his breathing gets heavy.

Jackson nudges at him until he folds up, head in Jackson's lap. His fingers curl over the cap of his head, thumb soft on his brow.

Stiles's breath is warm on Jackson's stomach.

It's hot and muggy in the cab and a line of sweat rolls down his spine. He can hear the cicadas. Can hear the bullfrogs from a nearby pond. He stays awake and _listens_. All of nature knows when there are monsters in the trees.

*

In the beginning, Jackson was grateful for the thought that he was immune. That the bite couldn't kill him, just like any other kind of disease. Werewolves are the kind of immortal that live until their heads get cut off, or they get stabbed with a particular kind of poison. And then the thought of everyone dying around him, leaving him there alone, became a special kind of nightmare. He doesn’t like being left behind.

Now he doesn't know what to think, but he thinks it's _bad_.

Raiding post-apocalyptic supermarkets never works out in the movies; he doesn't know why they thought this would somehow be different.

"It's a virus. You just have to not die before your body can finish fighting it off," Stiles says, a hand hovering over Jackson's thigh, over the soaked, bloody gash. Jackson won’t let him touch it.

"Oh, is that all?" The pain is excruciating. It's like his insides are being blackened by fire, stinging heat, pressure, sawing at him with jagged edges. He grits his teeth around a scream—Stiles's face is blurry above him.

He _feels_ like he's dying. He feels like he _wants_ to die. There are no waves, no temporary sweeping relief. It's just one continuous hurt, like he's being ripped apart while something is eating away at his insides.

"Stiles." He bites his words around fangs. "What about all the fucking people who _died_?"

"You don't have an immune system when you're dead, dipshit. The virus is the only thing _left_."

It's not a comfort.

It's not a comfort, but he can feel Stiles's fist pressing into his heart, solid bony knuckles digging into his ribcage. He thinks: _live through this. Sweat it out_. _Don’t be a fucking pansy._

He cries. He fucking _sobs_ , like he never did for Danny, for Noelle or for Laney and Carter.

Stiles says, voice thin, panicked, _grief-stricken_ , "If you die, you fucker, I'm gonna ram your tire iron through your eye."

Jackson huffs a laugh and says, “ _You better_.”

*

He wakes up to gunshots, aching all over.

Groggily, he says, “Stiles?”

“Jackson,” Stiles says, voice tight. “Are you a zombie?”

“I.” Jackson looks down at himself, and then over to where Stiles is propped up against the wall of the grimy back of the supermarket, a revolver clutched between shaky hands. “No.”

The more alert he becomes, though, the more he can feel how close to the surface his wolf is, an inpatient, throbbing pulse under the skin. He’s not a zombie, but he’s not sure if he’s still safe. He hasn’t felt this way since his first few full moons. He smells blood in the air, and not just his own.

Jackson stares down at the curl of his claws, flexes them in his lap. “What’s happening?” He forces back his fangs, runs his tongue reassuringly over blunt teeth. “Where did you get that gun?”

“Dead guard.” Gaze still locked across the parking lot, Stiles jerks his head back toward the door they’d stumbled out of after the _dead guard_ had taken a chunk of Jackson's leg.

“You _went back in_?” Jackson feels anger, a ball of it bitter at the bottom of his throat, but most of all he's _worried_. It’s a little bit of a relief; he doesn’t want to eat Stiles.

Stiles wrinkles his nose and finally looks at him. “We need to get out of here. We’re not the only scavengers. Can you walk?”

Jackson nods, even though his legs are weak when he scrapes his palms along the rough brick building, pushing himself to his feet. “Scavengers,” Jackson says, rolling the word around in his mouth. “Were you shooting at _people_?”

Stiles ignores him. He says, “The truck. We need to move fast.”

Jackson can’t see anyone. His mouth is bone dry, his head heavy. He has sharp eyes, and all he sees is the flat expanse of asphalt, the hot sun melting the surface, the copse of trees framing one side, the empty highway on the other.

Stiles doesn’t take his eyes off the concrete highway median, inching backward once Jackson is behind him.

“I should have the gun,” Jackson says. He thinks about angling himself in front of Stiles, shielding him from whatever he thinks is lurking, smart enough to hide in broad daylight. _Human_ , he thinks. _Scavengers_. He never thought to be afraid of the people who are left. “I’m the one who can get shot.”

“You don’t need to lose anymore blood, Jackson,” Stiles says firmly. “Just move.”

*

After five days, they’re in the mountains. It’s cooler, the higher the road winds, but Jackson doesn't talk about how it's _not cold enough_. The tall pines make him want to roll the windows down, but he’s too afraid of what he might smell.

Jackson is driving when they see the elk.

Stiles has his eyes closed, head tipped against the passenger window, but his breathing is too jerky to be asleep.

And then the elk—a herd of twenty, forty, maybe more—come crashing through the trees, sliding down a stark side of a jagged rock ledge, and then thundering across the road.

The truck skids to a stop when Jackson slams on the brakes. Stiles yelps and braces a hand on the dash.

They watch, stunned, breathing harsh over the clatter of hooves. The animals are trampling each other in panic, some falling to their knees as they barely make it over the ledge. They’re calling, odd, terrifying barks, and then they’re gone. There’s a ringing, eerie silence in their wake.

The truck engine is idling.

Jackson doesn’t want to stay and see what they were running from.

*

There's a small town in the heart of blue spruces. Slanted, carved out of rock, sturdy stone and log houses clustered together. It's pristine. Abandoned. Jackson can't _see_ anyone, but he can feel eyes on them anyhow.

He can't hear any heartbeats nearby, but the woods are breathing—there's birdsong, crickets in the high weeds and grass.

There's a skinny orange cat perched on a shingled roof.

"I don't like this place," Stiles says, fingers tight on the wheel.

Windows aren't boarded over. Nobody here was settling in for a siege. Somehow, that makes it worse.

"Keep driving," Jackson says.

"Yeah," Stiles says, foot steady on the gas. "Duh."

*

There aren't any road signs where they run out of gas.

They haven't passed any cars for miles—it was expected, but they hadn't talked about it.

The truck ticks as it cools rapidly in the high, thin air.

Stiles has the Montana map out, creased in haphazard places, running a finger over the black, blue and yellow lines. He bites his lip. He's sweating, even though it's in the fifties, and Jackson absently sweeps a thumb over his damp temple. Stiles doesn’t even twitch.

Stiles says, "I think we can walk the rest of the way."

Jackson doesn't want to. He wants the steel cage safety of the truck. But they don't have any more gas, and sitting still is suicide.

He says, "In the morning," and drags his hand down to rest on Stiles's nape.

Stiles closes his eyes and leans into it and says, "Yeah."

*

They divvy up what's left of the water before it gets dark. The small stashes of food they've found. Jackson could shoulder the bulk of it, but he doesn't—on foot, it's easier to get split up. Stiles shoves the stuffed cat at the bottom of his bag. Jackson straps the photo album onto the outside pocket of his. Stiles takes the rifle, and the small amount of bullets they've scrounged for it, and Jackson takes the revolver.

And then they wait. Bags stuffed into the foot-well, Jackson's legs folded up, feet on the dash, tire iron balancing on the uneven slant of his knees. Their hips are pressed together, Stiles angled sideways around the steering wheel. If he twisted just a little bit more he'd fall into Jackson's lap.

"Thanks," Stiles says, and Jackson doesn't want to hear it, scoots lower in his seat and closes his eyes. "No, really, for everything," Stiles goes on, nudging Jackson's leg in the dark. "I was lucky. That you were still there for me to find."

Jackson still hasn't told him that Scott asked him to stay. It doesn't matter. He would have waited for Stiles anyway.

Jackson says, "Shut up and go to sleep."

*

In the morning, Jackson thinks of Lydia. The sky is red. Low clouds, a storm in the distance.

Six days before evac, Lydia got word to him that she was fine. That she was ahead of the panic, and already on her way home. That was the last time he heard her voice.

Stiles follows his gaze, one hand on the hood of the truck. He says, "Can you feel them?"

Jackson shakes his head. "I was never Scott's wolf." He has no pack lines to follow. He doesn't know what's worse, not knowing if anyone's left, or feeling the bonds break, one by one.

*

The storm clouds slowly roll in closer, and by mid-morning the red is gone; everything is gray. They eat peanut butter crackers under the shelter of a sweeping pine, rain alternately pouring buckets and barely spitting.

Three hours of hiking later, they hear a howl. It doesn't sound right.

Jackson has been _listening_.

There's always a tell, a hush. He doesn't know what this _wrong howl_ means. Animals are still rustling. They've seen deer—spooked, but still on the normal side of skittish. The rain makes everything feel more alive.

Stiles perks up, opens his mouth to, _what_ , fucking yell for Derek? Scott?

Jackson slaps a palm over his mouth and jerks him backward before he can make a sound, grabbing his backpack with his other hand to keep him still.

Another howl, higher pitched and wavering.

He hisses in Stiles's ear. " _Don't_."

Derek has a cabin in the middle of the woods. They can see the roof of it, dull, dark metal. A gleaming, charmingly bent stovepipe along the side. Stiles is fidgeting in Jackson's grip, because they’ve made it, obviously, but Jackson isn't so sure anyone else but the _wrong howl_ wolf is there.

When they finally see it, shifting uneasily in the trees, Jackson drops his hands, curls them into fists, claws biting into his palms. It's not—Jackson doesn't think it's _undead_. It moves with too much purpose.

Stiles's voice is hoarse on, "She's not one of ours. _Fuck_." He sounds relieved and terrified all at once. "One of Derek's misfits, maybe. What's wrong with her?"

"Feral," Jackson says, eyes narrow. She's misshapen. Hulking, rabid, frothing at the mouth, but she still stalks like an animal. There's something still in there. "She's been bit."

Stiles eyes him askance. "You've been bit. Are you…?"

Jackson doesn't tell him that he can feel the moon on his skin, a heavy tangible weight, even during the day. It hasn't been a problem so far. He's grounded by fear, and there's never any lack of that around.

"She's been bit _several times_ ," Jackson says.

In the damp and rain, she can't smell them.

They watch her convulse, shake her head, snarl. Her howl sounds almost forlorn, and Jackson doesn’t know what the bites are doing to her, but none of it is good.

"We don’t have any wolfsbane," Stiles whispers.

"Then I have to get close enough to cut her head off." And maybe burn the body when he's done.

*

They don't have much of a plan. Mainly it's just: let Jackson take care of it. He doesn't know if she can infect Stiles, if she has whatever everyone else has, or if she fought off the infection only to go _crazy_. It's not impossible.

They don't talk about what could have happened to the pack. They don't talk about what could be waiting or not waiting for them at the cabin.

They concentrate on the pacing she-wolf, and the way she staggers, every few steps, and the way the falling rain seems to confuse her.

Stiles has his hoodie up, hanging over his face. Jackson reaches over, absently pulls on the ends of Stiles's long sleeves so they cover his palms.

He says, "You have to stay here," without looking at his face.

Stiles sputters, says, "No fucking way," and Jackson bites back a growl.

Stiles says, "You can't expect me to do nothing!"

Jackson's skin feels tight. He rolls his shoulders; his wolf is looking forward to this. He feels large; he breathes in and out and feels it all the way down to his toes.

He says, "You have the rifle. It'll slow her down, if we need it to."

He doesn’t say: _I'm going to rip her head off with my bare hands_.

He wants to eat all her insides. He's never even wanted to kill a squirrel before. This is a mistake he's not sure he can afford to make. He's going to do it anyway.

"Jackson," Stiles says, _helpless_.

Jackson tilts his head, catches his worried eyes. The fear, the terror of the world ending, is dangerously distant here. He wants to lean into Stiles, lick a path up his neck. Dig his claws into the meat of his ass, bite at his lips. If he lets go, he'll _devour_ him, and he needs Stiles to know that _isn't an option_.

He says, "You have the rifle," again, slowly, carefully. He says, "You'll use it on me, if you have to."

Emotions flicker lightning quick over Stiles's face—denial, disgust, anger, sadness, despair, determination. He says, "Fine," tight and clipped, but Jackson doesn't believe him.

"You will," Jackson says. He doesn't trust himself to touch him, but steps into his space, wolf thrilled that Stiles doesn't give an inch back. "Tell me," he pants. "If something happens," something is happening, "before I can hurt you. Tell me you will."

"You fucking asshole." Stiles's voice breaks. " _I will_."

*

He leaves his bag with Stiles. Leaves the gun. Leaves his shirt and boots too, because _fuck it_.

The rain makes the ground slippery, but his bare feet get better traction.

Jackson has the advantage, because he's still thinking clearly. He's focused, right now, on eliminating this threat – she isn't bigger than him. She might be meaner, but above the rage, above the fear, above the intense fucking paranoia that he can't shut off, he has Stiles. Every step he takes away from him has purpose. He might unhinge, afterwards, but right now he's going to do this to keep Stiles safe, and he doesn't think anything can stop him.

She finally hears him when he's barely twenty feet away, snaps her head up, eyes surprisingly still glowing a soft gold. She's got flesh hanging from her flank, a dark ooze of blood, slow and thick, dripping all the way down her side.

Jackson's teeth feel too big for his mouth—he growls, low and loud.

She shakes her head again.

Jackson's vision shutters to black and white as he lunges forward and attacks.

*

There's blood in his mouth. Metallic, rancid. His chest aches. His back stings. His claws are split, caked with mud, fur and gore.

He's staring down the barrel of Stiles's rifle from three feet away, but he doesn't feel any holes.

He has to spit, and it takes three tries for him to force out, "You goddamn idiot."

Stiles is shaking, fingers white knuckled on the trigger, the long line of it wavering back and forth with every struggling hitch of his breath. He smells like misery and piss and he sobs, a broken, fucked-up _wail_ , before dropping the rifle like a moron and launching himself into Jackson's arms.

*

Derek's cabin is empty. Stripped mostly clean, besides a folded pile of clothing and a half dozen cans of soup. There's a sat phone sitting in the middle of a sturdy, worn wooden desk.

Stiles stares at it, hands hovering, like he can't believe it's real. There's an old HF radio, carefully covered with a drop cloth.

This was a planned exit.

Relief unwinds a little bit of the tension in Jackson's back.

He says, "We should clean up and get changed. Eat something." He stares at the wood burning stove, wonders if they can risk a fire, or if they should just eat the soup cold.

There's a pump at the sink for water, and Stiles wastes no time stripping—hoodie and shirts first, then pushing down his jeans. Everything they've been wearing is filthy.

Jackson sorts through what Derek's left, ignoring Stiles's pale bare ass. Jesus.

And then he realizes there's a bed. There's a fucking bed, with a blanket and pillow and everything, and it's stupid to fucking… tear up at the thought of _sleeping_ , but. Shit.

He rubs fingers over his eyes, smudging dirt and blood, and heaves a deep breath. And then he shoves at his own torn pants, boxers, and bumps Stiles to the side.

" _Dude_ ," he says, but there's no _waiting for a turn_ , not when they're still going to have to sleep in clothes and shoes tonight.

The water is freezing, but neither of them cares. There's a sliver of soap and they soak the entire fucking floor, but _neither of them cares_.

Jackson runs cold, soapy fingers over the small of Stiles's back, rubs his thumb over a stubborn patch of dried blood along his arm and then, at the tentative press of fingers on Jackson's hips, he moves in closer to dip his face into Stiles's neck. He rests his cheek there and breathes.

Stiles clenches and unclenches his hands on Jackson’s skin. "Uh, Jackson?" he says.

"Don't ruin this with talking, Stilinski," Jackson says, but he grins, and he leans more of his weight into Stiles, cradles him all along his front.

"Ruin _what_?" Stiles says, and Jackson still can't believe what a fucking idiot Stiles is, but he didn't kill him, god, so hurray for Stiles not being stuck there all alone.

Jackson has never been this tired in his entire life. He bites blunt teeth into the crook of Stiles's neck, something content rumbling in his chest at the way Stiles finally, _finally_ relaxes into him, too.

And then he licks over the red marks he's left and pulls Stiles toward the bed, cock already half-hard, and says, "Down, down, c'mon, let me do this for you."

"What… _Jackson_." Stiles arches up and lets Jackson kiss him, lets him crawl on top and press thumbs onto his jaw and lick inside his mouth.

The air is cold and makes Jackson shiver. He tugs at sparse hairs on Stiles's chest, slides a hand down to palm his dick, bites at his chin, sucks bruises onto Stiles's throat. He feels _frantic_. He feels slow.

Stiles says, "Fuck," and sweeps fingers over Jackson's stomach, his chest, touch big and warm and then he clutches at Jackson's ass.

Jackson slides a knee up and drops his weight—the friction is barely on the pleasant side of painful, but all he wants to do is climb inside of Stiles and _stay_.

Stiles says, "We don't have lube. All that fucking scavenging and _no lube_? Did we think this through, Jackson?"

Jackson chokes back a laugh. He says, "No," and he says, "This is fine. This is. Just let me," and then he's moving down.

Stiles jolts, gratifyingly, when Jackson licks over a nipple, then heaves a half-panicked breath when Jackson feels the tip of his dick hit under his chin.

"This is—"

"Calm down," Jackson says. He pets Stiles's hips, runs fingers up his ribcage just to make him squirm.

He lets Stiles move. He keeps his fingers light. Lets him hit the back of his throat when he swallows him down. The aborted movements are _sweet_ and all, but Jackson shoulders one of Stiles’s legs up, curls a forearm under and pushes until Stiles gets the hint, fucks up into him with a, "God, _god_."

Too soon, Stiles is scrambling at the back of his hair, pulling, thrusting up once, twice, before saying, "Up, up, fucking, get up here and kiss me, I wanna—"

 _Jackson_ doesn't want to, wants to rut himself off into the soft cotton blanket, but he lets Stiles maneuver him up anyhow, hands biting into his biceps until they're slotted together, Jackson's cock sliding into the join of Stiles's hip.

It's rushed. Stiles comes with one hand in Jackson's hair, the other clutching at the back of his neck.

Jackson chokes back a moan, hooks his arms behind Stiles's lower back and pulls him closer.

His mind is white noise, it's rushing water, it's a howl, but he's quiet, so quiet, as he shakes apart.

*

The sat phone has a number taped to the back. They don't call it. They don't even talk about calling it. Jackson thinks they're both too afraid that no one will answer.

They carefully pack up the HF radio in Jackson's bag, slip the phone in the front of Stiles’s.

Jackson has on a slightly loose pair of pants, but the length is okay. They're probably Scott's. The shirt smells stale, and like Argent.

Stiles is wearing a worn BHP shirt that he'd quietly cried over before they'd slept, and a pair of Derek's jeans.

There was a map, carefully folded in the center drawer of the desk, marked up in red, and Stiles stares at it with his eyebrows furrowed.

Jackson says, "What?"

"They're going to the Yukon." He looks up at him. "Do you know how far that is?"

Jackson shrugs. "Really fucking far?"

They have a box of matches and five cans of soup. A package of beef jerky. A pot. They have winter jackets, probably because of Stiles's dad, or maybe Lydia, because Scott never thinks long term, and Derek is a walking disaster.

Jackson gives Stiles his boots and takes Stiles's sneakers, because it doesn't matter if his toes freeze.

"So," Stiles says. He folds up the map, shoves it into his bag. He stands at Jackson's shoulder, facing the door. "We're hiking to Canada."

Jackson nudges their hands together, hooks fingers, until they're palm to palm. "We're gonna keep moving," he says, instead of saying yes.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes I write stuff on [tumblr](https://pantstomatch.tumblr.com/)


End file.
